


Geliebter, spare den Zorn.

by lategoodbye



Series: Ihrem Ende eilen sie zu. [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:44:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'What do you want, Jakes?' - 'Same as you. To begin with.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Geliebter, spare den Zorn.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the second part in a loosely connected series of episode follow-ups. It takes place after the events of 'Rocket.' 
> 
> The title is taken from Wagner's Die Meistersinger Von Nürnberg, Act II. It means, 'Beloved, save your scorn.' Many thanks to Beth and Rose for beta'ing and being generally awesome, and also to Colin Dexter for introducing me to the linguistic beauty of 'unbuttoning' (and let's not forget 'over-beered' while we're already at it).

It's 5 in the afternoon and he's waiting for him in the office.

'How was it then?'

Jakes is casually leaning against the wooden partition that usually doubles as a makeshift incident board. It's empty for once; all traces of their last case neatly stowed away in boxes headed for the evidence room. The blinds are drawn on the large windows, effectively obscuring the view of Jakes's own desk. Has the man been doing paperwork all this time or just returned to the station himself? There's no one else in sight, and the door to Thursday's office is closed. 

'How was what?' Morse's voice is all clipped tones as he peels out of his coat and lets it drop non too carefully over the back of his chair. Feigning disinterest isn’t especially difficult, not even for him. He may be a rotten liar (or so he's been told) but there's only ever a small part of him that wonders what his esteemed colleague is up to now (or so he likes to tell himself).

'Your date with the foxy Miss Vexin?'

A smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth, and Morse is weary. Jakes never smiles, it seems to him, except if he's discovered interesting new ways to test his patience.

'Fell through,' Morse says as he starts skimming through his notebook, a small black soft-cover volume filled with rows of small and neat handwriting.

'I thought you were going to the cinema?'

Morse shrugs. He's trying hard not to think about Alice, about the disappointment (the heartbreak he's forever saved for someone else) but not necessarily the regret that comes and goes in waves whenever he lets his mind wander. And it wanders a lot. There was never anything he could do about that. 

'You didn't play her one of your records, did you? Just because some birds say they're into-'

'Was there anything else?' Morse interrupts, the much practised look of exasperation on his face betraying his neutral tones. Jakes picks up on it immediately. He straightens up, all playfulness gone as he lights a cigarette and makes to leave.

'I'm being helpful, you know,' he says. 'Try it, Morse. Might get you somewhere someday.'

The faint smell of too much aftershave and stale smoke lingers, and with a barely suppressed groan Morse drags himself from his chair to open a window.

It's dark when he leaves for home. Or, more precisely, for the nearest pub. It's not one of his favourite haunts but as long as the beer is good he doesn't discriminate. The company isn't half-bad either, he thinks, as Jim Strange returns with another round of bitter and carefully places one of the pints on the beer mat in front of him. The Constable seems his usual, good-natured self. He's left his friends over by the pool table but it's the group of detectives occupying the bar Morse finds himself sneaking glances at now and again. 

'If you'd rather drink with them ...,' Strange offers reluctantly but there's no impatience or even bitterness marring the sound of his voice as Morse frowns into his glass. 

'What? No. Not with Jakes all ...' For once, he lacks the words to illustrate his frustration so he lets his hands do the talking for him; not that it proves to be especially helpful. Strange shrugs. He seems to accept this explanation for what it is, and Morse wonders how much he could possibly know. Not about _them_ , he's not worried about that, and as far as he's concerned there's no _them_ anyway. Still, Strange isn't a terribly clever man but no one in their right mind can deny the fact that he's often quite perceptive. Morse wagers he knows more about the ins and outs of the station than even the Chief Super does. Or Morse himself. Which isn't saying much. It's almost been half a year and he still doesn't know everyone by name. 

'Want me to quiz you?' 

'Perhaps not tonight,' Morse replies softly but he's not exactly unhappy with the sudden change of topic; even if he positively despises his drawn-out affair with borrowed and second-hand textbooks, and a not entirely up-to-date edition of Moriarty's Police Law. If there's one facet of university life he's never quite mastered (solely for lack of trying, he presumes not without pride) it's memorising paragraph upon paragraph of unimaginative prose. Solving problems, following a trail of clues, this is the stuff that piques his interest, and he finds it hard to conjure up any kind of enthusiasm for things that by definition alone are dull and pointless. 

'You're not still hung up on that girl, are you, matey?'

Morse rather abruptly abandons the remnants of his already more than half-finished beer, the natural curve of his lips tightening as the muscles in his jaw start twitching. Once, twice, until he gives up this particular charade and sighs tonelessly. 

'Why is everyone asking me that today?'

Strange stands his ground, much in the same way he endures most of Morse's famed stand-offishness.

'Plenty of other fish in the sea. All I'm saying, Morse.'

It's after another round of bitter that Strange takes his leave. Morse, who's frustratingly restless tonight, finds himself ordering Scotch. He regrets his decision as soon as he's parted with far too many coins from his small wallet but the overpriced whisky leaves a satisfying trail of warmth in its wake. He thinks of ordering himself another, despite the gaping hole it burns into this months' finances.

'You celebrating something?' comes the familiar voice from far too close beside him but Morse doesn't give Jakes the satisfaction of shying away. Truth be told, he might be more than just a little over-beered and his movements are slow and deliberate. Like so many times when alcohol comes into play, it works to his advantage. 

'What's it to you?' he drawls but if the calmness in his voice unsettles Jakes, he makes a good job of hiding it. 

'Thought I'd invite myself along.' A pause. A smile. Jakes's deep blue eyes have a mischievous glint to them. It drives Morse up the wall. 'That's your thing though, innit?'

His surrender comes gradually. The slope of his shoulders, a slight roll of his eyes, a tiny groan as Morse half-turns away.

'What do you want, Jakes?'

'Same as you. To begin with.'

'And what would that be?'

Jakes reaches for his whisky tumbler and downs it in one big gulp. It's his only reply and it leaves Morse speechless. He can't even muster up enough of a reaction to be angry at Jakes as he sets the glass down and leans heavily against the counter, his classically handsome face a mask of smugness.

'Meet you outside, Morse. Think we've both had enough of this.'

Morse doesn't follow immediately. And, really, who does Jakes think he is? All of this, wide out in the open! He looks about himself but the pub has emptied considerably, and his wristwatch confirms that it's almost eleven. Time to go home, even if home is about half an hour away and the last vestiges of autumn have left the clear November air with a crispness that Morse feels only too well through the thin fabric of his coat as he steps out into the night.

He won't be waiting for him, he tells himself, but he keeps an eye out as he starts his way down the empty street. And there he is, Jakes, falling in step beside him, the end of his ever-present cigarette a glowing ember in the muted stillness that is Cowley by night.

'Where's your car?' Morse asks, although he's quite sure that Jakes doesn't fare much better than he does, not on his only marginally higher sergeant's salary, and not with his expensive taste in clothes and cigarettes.

'Don't have one, do I? Besides, we're supposed to be setting an example, me and you. Coppers and all. Thought you were an upright sort of bloke.'

Morse scoffs.

'Wouldn't mind getting home before midnight.'

'Your place or mine?'

It's purely out of principle that Morse decides he doesn't much like what Jakes is suggesting. The straightforwardness of it seems almost vulgar. Then again, he doesn't have to like it, does he? He can't stand Jakes and it doesn't make any difference. Still, he's ever so curious as their brisk walk slows down to a leisurely stroll just as they are about to cross the River Cherwell. 

'What's got into you today?'

Jakes does not approve. 

'No, what's it with _you_?' he snaps, effectively stepping into his path so Morse has no choice but to stop as well.

'You're drunk.'

'So are you!'

'No, I'm not,' Morse states matter of factly. He might be a poor liar but he's always been good at lying to himself.

'Right.'

'It helps me think.' He feels the need to defend himself. And it's a perfectly fine explanation, thinks Morse, one that earns him a curious look. 

'What d’you want to do that for?'

Morse doesn't comprehend. Thinking is all he has. 

'Has anyone ever told you that you don't end your sentences with-'

The kiss comes as a complete surprise to him. It's sloppy and forceful and wet, and it doesn't exactly conjure up the most erotic of imagery. He pushes Jakes away, his fingers already numb from the cold but still acutely aware of the way his touch lingers on the lapels of Jakes's coat.

'What'd you do that for?' he asks, slightly out of breath.

Jakes grins and wipes his mouth.

'It's the only way to get you to shut up.'

They make their way back to Morse's bedsit in silence, the smoke of yet another cigarette trailing behind them. The stars are out tonight but their cold promise comes with a frosty sheen on the windscreens of the few cars that are parked along their way. Morse shivers in his thin coat. Jakes's presence brings him no comfort. Any closeness they share is usually brought on by the heat of yet another inconsequential argument; and so they enter the flat in awkward disarray, bumping into each other in the darkness.

'Watch your step,' Morse complains.

This is what sets Jakes off.

His attack, when it comes, is ferocious in its intensity, and at first he misses Morse's lips completely, inhaling sharply as their noses collide in an almost comically painful manner. Morse doesn't withdraw but he's only too aware of the fact that they need to close that door, maybe even make their way over to his unmade bed if this is supposed to be leading somewhere soon. Somehow he manages to swing the door shut with his heel, its loud bang temporarily drowning out the rustling of clothes and the wet, little noises they make when lips meet teeth and tongues.

It's not enough. Jakes manoeuvres them up against the big shelf by the wall. Books and records and Jakes's fingers dig into his back. His little, portable turntable is carelessly shoved aside.

'Careful with the record player,' Morse worries. He's out of breath as he squirms underneath Jakes's touch.

'To hell with your record player.' Jakes edges a little closer, his long fingers blindly but skilfully undoing the buttons of Morse's coat and jacket. He manages to shove the offending fabric out of the way soon enough before he grips his shirt between clenched fists and tugs it out of the waistband of his trousers. 

But despite the clumsy urgency he doesn't seem to mind that Morse is taking his time. They're desperately out of sync as Morse's own hands snake between the layers of Jakes's suit. There's warmth there that Morse seeks out, and he traces the shape of Jakes's waist with his fingertips before dipping lower, shifting the weight of his own body until his left knee pushes against the heat of Jakes's inner thigh. He feels how the other man hesitates then, just for a fraction of a second until he abandons the softness of Morse's lips and lets his tongue trail along the side of his jaw and down his neck. Jakes seems almost desperate in his attempts to outdo him. Morse supposes he could let him win, this once.

It all becomes a bit of a blur, after that. Morse has never been the most methodical of lovers, diverting his attentions wherever mindless fancy takes him. What he remembers is Jakes's mouth hot against his skin, or the way his warm and calloused hands travel up and down his back, or his own hands as they ghost against the firmness of Jakes's chest, and he knows that if he'd stop for just a moment he could almost feel his heartbeat there, but he doesn't want to linger because _heart_ isn't what this is, and neither of them are interested in giving it a proper name. He follows the intoxicating trail of Jakes's skin instead, until his slow progress is stopped by the waistband of his tailored trousers. And perhaps it's about time they had changed positions anyway, so Morse pushes and pulls and almost stumbles as he steps on what must be Jakes's beloved pea-coat until the next piece of furniture they bump into is the dining table, then the desk, and finally the bed. But what seemed to be working out reasonably well with Alice Vexin becomes a slightly more complicated affair as they both tumble onto the old mattress. The metal of the bedframe rattles loudly, but only for a second or two until the jarring sound dies away into the occasional creak. It's rather distracting but so is Jakes's hand roaming up his thigh as they both half-sit, half-lie on top of the crumpled sheets. 

Getting rid of their ties proves to be the awkward interlude in an ongoing sequence of mishaps, but at least it gives Morse the opportunity to let his fingers run through Jakes's silky hair without the other man ducking out of the way impatiently. It keeps him entertained for a little while until he can't bear the heat that's building up between them any longer and his hands begin to wander, almost as if by their own accord. Unbuttoning, Morse thinks, certainly is one of the most pleasing words in the English language. And it proves to be very pleasing indeed to undo the hook and button of Jakes's trousers and unzip his fly. The tips of his fingers are still uncomfortably cold, he knows, as he slides his hand between fabric and skin, and he can't suppress a breathless little exhale of laughter as he feels Jakes tensing up beside him.

'Have you done this before?' he asks, just to make sure he doesn't misunderstand. But Jakes grinds against his palm impatiently, and the heat of his body is very inviting, very arousing. Or rather aroused. Ah, the wonders of the English language.

'What, you're the expert then?' Jakes growls. It occurs to Morse then, as he smirks into the crook of Jakes's neck, that he hasn't stopped rubbing the man through the thin fabric of his pants.

'Perhaps,' he teases. 

'Come off it, Morse.'

It's then that Jakes's breath catches in his throat.

'Rather too late for that, don't you think?' he says, and he's quite pleased with himself.

It's thus that he doesn't object as Jakes pushes him down on the bed. What's uncomfortable isn't Jakes's weight on top of him or one of his own hands still firmly stuffed down Jakes's trousers. It's not the way the other man's skinny knees frame his thighs or how he's sure he's just felt the last few buttons of his shirt give away all at once. But really, half-leaning against the head-board of his bed he feels like a pinned butterfly, and he wiggles a little lower until his feet bump against the end of the bed and Jakes is looming above him in the almost perfect darkness of his room.

'Don't stop,' he breathes, and Morse obliges. 

To be quite honest, he's not an expert at this, not by a long shot, but he's eager to map shores previously left uncharted, and the way Jakes's hips are rolling rhythmically against his touch excites him. His own arousal is straining hot against his thigh but Jakes seems caught up in the moment and it takes a little coaxing to get him to relax against the body underneath. When he does, Morse can barely keep from melting into sharp hipbones and mumbled obscenities. He regrets not having had the foresight to get rid of both of their trousers. Perhaps if he tugs and pushes just _so_. 

He's rewarded with smooth skin and the non-too gentle administrations of someone who still seems to think it all comes down to this being some kind of competition. And, for God's sake, Morse thinks although he's been without any kind of faith for years now, they're even still wearing their shoes; as proven by the fact that the heels of his own worn pair of black Derbies frequently hit against the foot-board of his bed. He tries to push them off but to no avail. This is the exact moment Jakes's warm and slightly sweaty hand begins stroking along his length, and Morse can't stop from moaning into Jakes's kisses. It's clichéd, he knows, but the world recedes around them until all that's left is the pinprick of both of their existences illuminating the jumbled thoughts in Morse's mind. 

And they're not even in tune with each other, and there's too much friction and no discernible rhythm, and half of the time Jakes fails to hit that unmistakable spot of pleasure Morse so desperately seeks again and again by bucking his hips against the hollow of Jakes's palm; against his own hand as it's pumping away mindlessly. And there's an idea, he thinks, as he pulls Jakes even closer and he half-collapses against him until they're lying side by side, their legs awkwardly entwined and Morse's back against the cold wall below the curtained windows. There's some shuffling about as Jakes edges closer, his forehead bumping against the bridge of his nose, strands of his messy dark hair falling into his eyes. Morse can barely make out the shape of his face but he's so close now, so very close, and his breath is ragged against Jakes's slightly opened mouth. 

They've long since abandoned their frantic kissing. All Morse can concentrate on is that calloused hand, and soon even that becomes unimportant as release hits him like the sudden, rhythmic downpour of a tempest in midsummer. He spends himself into that hand, and into the sheets, and if his own efforts have momentarily waned Jakes now reminds him with an impatient moan of his own. He finishes him off with lazy, drawn-out strokes, and as Jakes's body shudders beside him, his own fingers sticky and his breathing still laboured, he watches the other man's silhouette attentively in the twilight between shadows and the faint glow of the street lamps outside his windows; that is, until his eyes drift shut and he buries his face into the coarse linen of his pillow.

It's not long until Jakes untangles himself from an embrace that was never meant to be one to begin with. There's the familiar rustle of clothes and the muffled sound of footsteps that make their reluctant way through the darkness and into the bathroom. Morse uses the opportunity to kick off his sheets and sprawl on top of the duvet. Never one to be of much use after all passion has faded into a dull throb, he barely has enough energy left to pull up his trousers and turn on his back. It's chilly in the unheated room and with unblinking eyes he watches the closed bathroom door for a little while before the sound of the running tap lulls him to sleep. 

'Morse.'

When he opens his eyes, Morse can barely make out Jakes's bulky frame towering overhead. He must be wearing his coat, Morse realises as he squints up uncomprehendingly at the other man. The smell of smoke creeps into his nose. For the first time in his life he finds himself craving a cigarette, and he watches as Jakes takes a long drag, his face momentarily painted in shades of flickering orange. And really, there's nothing more to be said as Jakes turns around and leaves, the door softly falling shut behind him and mercifully cutting short any risk of bedside conversation. Morse wouldn't have known what to say anyway. He's quite sure Jakes understands.


End file.
